


without the word

by goukyorin (sashimisusie)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:22:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sashimisusie/pseuds/goukyorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is more than just a definition. It is thought, action, and all of the things the Seeker cannot put into words when it comes to those nearest to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blackwall

Hate is not the opposite of love.

She curls her gauntleted fist, punch striking true with a dull thud, and hisses beneath her breath with displeasure. Hatred, and the all-consuming fire that burns deep and low, implies some level of care. Indifference, then, is affection’s negative mirror, and for all the Seeker’s desire to ignore the disgraced Warden’s existence, she finds that she  _cannot_.

Not when the bandit’s blade nearly strikes true, clanging against Cassandra’s raised shield instead of sinking into the gap between his collar and helm. The impact jars right through to her shoulder, fire and electricity arcing along deep-set nerves, and she sets her jaw in stubbornness when Blackwall startles at her protection.

Not when the crackle of magic nearby sets the hairs on the back of her neck standing and he’s in the way—he would be, some small part of her mutters dryly, wardens could never leave well enough alone. Instinct and years of training snap reflex-quick as she dives to cover him, pulling at the song that resonates within her to ground reality once more. The air that once burned with fire shimmers instead with her prayer, and he  _stares,_ awestruck _._

       Not even when Blackwall grunts, grimacing from the effort to keep the tip of the blade from piercing her throat, nor when he nods silently as she lays out battle tactics. Every missed opportunity to deny his existence rankles with her, but with all that has come to pass, she cannot give him her indifference, and so she  _hates_. Despises by measures, relenting to uneasy camaraderie when the part of her that raises hackles at his attempts at kindness and mercy falls quiet.

Why, Blackwall asks her one day, a quiet query made gravelly by his hesitation. She does not need to ask what he means, for they both know what he seeks.

**“** _The deep dark before dawn’s first light seems eternal, but know that the sun always rises. For there is no darkness in the Maker’s Light,and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._   **”** the Seeker murmurs in response, gaze turned skyward to where the Maker’s light shines against the tear in the Veil. Byron would have given him a second chance, and so, she decides at last however grudgingly, will she. He has earned that much from her.

**“** It is never too late to become more than what you are, Warden Blackwall.  **”**


	2. Dog

His name is Lucky, but she calls him Dog.

**“**   _Come here, dog!_   **”**  the Seeker shouts when the hound tears down the halls of Skyhold, one disaster after the other in his wake as that legendary Mabari intelligence is put into the task of avoiding pursuit. It is not that no one else will confront the hound, but rather, she is the first to her feet when the baying snap of a bark takes a turn for the mischievous.

**“**   _Drop that, dog!_   **”**  Cassandra demands, gauntlet clutched fist-tight in one hand and the other gesticulating sharply down for the Mabari to release what is hers. He tilts his head, good eye fixing her with a look of understanding, before barking happily. Lucky does not drop it, not when she dives to snatch it back from him, and not until she has three hundred— _give or take a stone_ —pounds of Fereldan-bred muscle and fur on top of her.

She finds she cannot muster the vehemence required to make her commands stay when the hound lays his head upon her knee, scarred paws heavy over the Seeker’s feet. She scowls heavily when Varric jabs at her, winking,  **“**  Going soft now, Seeker?  **”**  but scratches behind the dog’s ears absentmindedly as she writes.

Lucky lets out a soft whump of breath, half a bark and half a sigh, and snub-nosed head grows heavier yet in sleep. She has never stayed rooted to a place long enough to have a pet, not in her youth as a Seeker-in-training where privacy was scarce enough between the apprentices, and not when her duties as the Divine’s Right Hand sent her across Thedas. The scruffy kittens at the Redoubt’s stables tickled at her calloused fingers, and the bloodhounds sleeping in the kennels learned which of the apprentices were more amenable to giving up treats, but none of those had been hers.

The Mabari nudges at her hand when she falls remiss in scratching behind his ears, a soft woof to draw her attention back to him. Cassandra snorts, the sound low in her throat but without malice, and pats him on the head.

**“** Good dog,  **”**  she says, tracing battle-worn fingertips over healed scars and thick fur. He barks, she wrinkles her nose in displeasure, and so they continue, Seeker and unlikely companion at her side.

His name is Lucky, and he is her dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [dogisms](http://dogisms.tumblr.com/), a Lucky (Hawkeye) blog with a Dragon Age verse. All hail roleplay and fic, for putting in a dog companion.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally answered as part of an ask meme: send a ♡ to hear how Cassandra would tell your muse that she loves them (platonic, romantic, or otherwise) without actually using the word “love.”


End file.
